Answering the Call by K.M. Rockwood

Short stories are a favorite of mine. I love to read them, and I love to write them.

Sometimes a story jumps out at me from apparently nowhere, and I sit down at the computer to dash it off, often feverishly, as it plays in my mind. Then I need to find it a home.

More frequently, though, my stories are inspired by a submission call from a themed anthology or periodical.

My first paying short story (not that it paid much) was “The Bridge,” written for and accepted by the periodical Thema in an issue featuring unanticipated events.

I was hooked.

Most anthologies and periodicals issuing calls for themed short stories pay very little, if anything. That’s not because they don’t want to, or are trying to take advantage of authors, but because they can’t afford to. These aren’t great money-makers. When I submit a story, it’s for the same reason the publisher and the editor is doing this—a labor of love. And the possibility of achieving the thrill of seeing my work presented to a larger audience.

Submission calls can be fairly general or very specific in their requirements. It should go without saying that the instructions should be carefully followed, but some people don’t realize the guidelines apply to them, too.

We have all met occasional would-be authors who are sure their writing is so brilliant that it rises above conventions and will be accepted regardless of whether it meets the criteria or not. While sometimes a norm-breaking author does achieve fame and success, that’s unlikely to be the case here. The initial screener probably won’t see beyond the failure to follow the guidelines, and no one may even bother to read the submission.

In some cases, submission is open only to a specific membership and is intended to showcase the work of these authors. Sometimes the criteria otherwise limits who can submit, which is spelled out in the guidelines. If the call is seeking only works by Canadian women, anyone else will be wasting not only the editor’s time, but also their own, if they write and submit a story. The limitations on the authors can be geographical, within a certain age range, or by other characteristics. I’ve seen an announcement that calls for only those with neurodiversity.

The criteria for thematic consideration can be broad or narrow. I recently submitted a story that called for a first-person POV of someone sentenced to execution for crimes. Other times it’s fairly broad—animals, holidays, foods.

An editor is probably seeking a variety of stories within the defined category, so submitting an entry with an unusual twist on the theme is more likely to get a nod. If the theme is animals, there will be plenty of dog stories, and several may be chosen. But a story about a platypus or a lemur could be unique. When one anthology called for stories about conventions, I successfully offered one where the protagonist was a housekeeper in the convention hotel.

Length is crucial. The editor already has in mind an approximate length and a target number of stories. Some want flash fiction. Others will consider stories that approach novella status. The word count is spelled out in the guidelines.

Where do I find submission calls? The most frequent source is The Short Mystery Fiction Society Blog, where dedicated volunteers maintain market lists, including one for anthologies which have issued a submission call. I am also a dues-paying member of several writers’ organizations, like SinC’s Guppies, that periodically organize an anthology. And several conferences, like Bouchercon, Malice Domestic and Crime Bake, often publish anthologies.

My story “Dead on the Beach,” in which a mourning sister seeks the truth about her brother’s death on a Cape Cod Beach on a cold winter’s night, is included in Judy Penz Sheluk’s anthology Moonlight and Misadventure which will be released on June 18. 

The next Chesapeake Crimes anthology, which has a Magic theme, will have “Pyewackett,” the tale of a witch’s familiar who takes the form of a cat looking for a new mistress. When he finds her, he devotes himself to helping her sort out her love life.

Writing and submitting to themed anthologies and periodicals may not be lucrative, but it’s a fun way to work on the craft of writing, and rewarding to see a story in print.

Read “The Bridge” free at: https://kmrockwood.com/thebridge.php

More information and preorders for Moonlight and Misadventure: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B094DT4366

 

Finding the Secret Hiding in Each Tale by Martha Reed

Human brains are hard-wired to consider unseen possibilities. What was that sound? Was something moving in the shadows beyond the firelight? It’s probably how we survived as a species. Couple that with our ability to use our imaginations to create possible solutions and you have the definition of a mystery reader.

Suspense and mystery stories are like a puzzle, containing secrets hidden within secrets. Authors are sleight-of-hand magicians, serving up surprising revelations until the final and amazing reveal. But if there are only seven basic plotlines and story archetypes, how do authors build stories that still delight and surprise astute mystery readers?

I start building stories by thinking of them as word architecture. Once I’ve laid out the pieces of the story (e.g., characters, short- and long-term goals, plot points, and twists) I begin weaving in the simple initial clues and foreshadowing so that a reader will feel satisfied by its ending.

According to the brilliant short story writer, Art Taylor: “But an ending … you’re balancing various strands of a story by that point, working against a reader’s predictions and expectations, trying to make sure your resolution is both surprising and inevitable.”

Presenting an inevitable truth at the story’s end is what has a satisfied reader sitting back in their chair, slapping their foreheads, and saying, “Of course!”

How can a writer achieve an inevitable ending?

1. Foreshadow the twists into the story’s initial paragraphs or section. The reader hasn’t grasped the story yet, so slipping in subtle clues sets up their unconscious expectations while still keeping the clues off the front-of-their-mind radar.
2. State each character’s personal stake in the outcome.
3. Use a surprise twist and up the stakes on the characters.
4. Use another twist and up the stakes again.
5. Mid-story, use more succinct dialogue and shorter sentences to pick up the pace. This also increases the tension.
6. In the final third of the story, present a logical denouement that the reader has already anticipated from the story’s setup. They will feel disappointment that they figured it out. The important thing here is that they are hooked into feeling an emotion.
7. Present the final and inevitable twist. This triggers a new and better emotion, delighted surprise.

How do you create a final and inevitable twist? This prompt has been working for me:

1. Identify a short-term goal for each character. Share these goals with the reader as part of the general exposition. Short-term goals should be stated and obvious since they reveal each character’s desire which drives their actions.
2. Identify a hidden long-term goal for each character. Insert and layer these hidden desires into the story in dialogue and internal monologue. This adds character depth and reader insight.
3. The final inevitable twist is generally wrapped up in the protagonist’s hidden long-term goal. If you’ve layered enough long-term clues earlier in the story, the final twist becomes inevitable.

One last suggestion on developing a final inevitable twist is to consider using the opposite of the protagonist’s hidden long-term goal. This final twist may end up surprising even you, the writer.

What stories have you read that offered great final twists?

Malice Domestic Anthology 14: Mystery Most Edible Interview by E. B. Davis

Malice Domestic Mystery Most Edible is the newest anthology released by Wildside Press. The stories are chosen by a panel of judges, who are not on the Malice Board, but are normally regular attendees of the convention. The panel of judges don't see each other’s scores. It’s a fair and blind method of choosing the stories included in the anthology.

Most anthologies contain about 20-24 short stories. This anthology includes 36 stories. I asked some of the authors questions about their stories. All the stories involve food one way or another. It’s quite a treat (sorry) and a bargain.

Welcome authors to WWK.                                   E. B. Davis

“The Extra Ingredient” by Joan Long

What’s in the purple cannister?

Three Egg Kitchen takes its “rat” problems seriously, so the purple canister contains rat poisoning.

“A Death in Yelapa” by Leslie Budewitz

Is there some chemical in cilantro that makes it distasteful to some people?

Food researchers say that roughly 15% of the population think cilantro tastes like soap. Why? That 15% apparently have an increased sensitivity to bitterness, with receptor genes that react negatively to the naturally-occurring aldehydes in cilantro---which also occur in some soaps.  There is a slight geographic component to the sensitivity or tolerance – people of Central American or Indian ancestry rarely have problems with cilantro, which makes sense as it is native to those regions and is common in regional cuisines, while people of East Asian ancestry tend to be more cilantrophobic. As for me? Bring it on!

“Pie Sisters” by Richard Cass

Is there a real tale about rhubarb leaves?

Rhubarb leaves are toxic: they contain oxalic acid and sennoside. A person in good health would have to eat several kilos of leaves to die. In 1919, a doctor in Helena, Montana reported to the Journal of the American Medical Association that a young woman in his care had died, bleeding from the nose, after ingesting rhubarb leaves and stems for dinner.

“Too Many Cooks Almost Spoil the Murder” by Lynne Ewing

Have you ever competed in a cooking or baking contest? 

Years ago, I loved baking chocolate cakes and often entered my recipes in competitions.  My cakes have never won but creating new recipes was always fun.

“Pig Lickin' Good” by Debra H. Goldstein

How did the cake get its name? Did you pull on your Alabama roots for this story?

The South is known for pig roasts. At these barbecue events, guests would pick or pull the tender meat off the cooked pig. Consequently, these events became known as Pig Pickin’s. The cake recipe featured in “Pig Lickin’ Good“ is a moist cake often served at these barbecues because of its simplicity and the way its taste compliments the barbecued pig. At the end of the meal, the event’s success was noted by the licking clean of one’s fingers.  The name, Pig Lickin’ Cake, originally was used in the Carolinas, but later adopted throughout the south. As a transplanted Yankee, it was research rather than roots that brought me to the recipe.

“Quiche Alain” by Marni Graff

Have you ever eaten Puffer fish?

I’ve never eaten pufferfish, and would run like the dickens from it on a menu! But it was used in an episode of Alfred Hitchcock I saw decades ago, and it made an impression on me. When I was looking for an unusual way to kill someone for this story, the memory came to me from the depths of my memory bank.

“Diet of Death” by Ang Pompano

“We all sold our souls one way or another in the cooking industry.” Loc. 1435

In what ways?

Publicity-hungry diet guru Alan Tolzer is willing to set aside his feud with super star food columnist Betty Ann Green so she can promote his book. But Betty doesn’t exist. The editor of On-Topic Magazine has secretly hired a cooking-challenged man, Quincy Lazzaro, to write the “Cooking with Betty” column.  And Quincy, desperate for a writing job, accepted the invitation to deceive the public by impersonating Betty. Now he's feeling guilty about compromising his values and wondering how long before he gets caught. 

“Death at The Willard Hotel” by Verena Rose

I’ve eaten many times at the Old Ebbitt Grill, but I didn’t know it started out as a hotel. When did the hotel close? Thanksgiving Day was celebrated in April?

The Old Ebbitt Grill began in 1856 when William Ebbitt bought a boarding house. I couldn’t find when it actually stopped being a boarding house. But its best distinction is being Washington’s first known saloon. While looking at the calendar for 1860 I discovered that Thanksgiving Day was indeed celebrated on April 13. However, during Lincoln’s presidency it was changed to November.

“Dining Out” by Rosemary McCracken

Do restaurant critics really have the power to close a restaurant?

I don’t believe that a single newspaper, magazine or radio review has the power to close a restaurant. But, combined with word of mouth from restaurant-goers, a review can add to the negative buzz about a restaurant that can impact its business. The restaurant business is precarious, with huge overhead costs. If its tables are empty, a restaurant can go out of business in a matter of months.

“Snowbirding” by Kristin Kisska

How do people get hemlock? Does it have to be distilled or can the needles be placed in food or drink?

Poisonous hemlock--a highly toxic and invasive plant species--grows all over North America and can be found along roadsides and thick clusters of weeds.  In fact, hemlock leaves can be confused for parsley and the stem for parsnip!  In my story, I assumed the alcohol was laced with bits of the plant floating inside the silver flask.  Since the story takes place in the thick of Maine's winter, the hemlock would've been collected months before and stored for later (nefarious) use.

“Up Day Down Day Deadly Day” by Ellen Larson

You made up the acronym “WOE,” didn’t you? Your story does have a lot of humor in it. Are you worried that readers will think you were making fun of overweight people and be offended?

All the acronyms and weight-loss language are real and well known to the dieting community. It’s funny because it’s true!

Not at all. Fat-shaming—and looksism in general—is abhorent to me, and you won't find it in this story. In fact, I think readers might be surprised at how normal all the characters are—especially when they are being very, very silly.

“The Secret Blend” by Stacy Woodson

Did you ever work at KFC?

I never worked at KFC, but I was a frequent customer when I was stationed at Fort Bragg. 

“First of The Year” by Gabriel Valjan

What is the Spanish word for “stew?” Why is it scary? Are octopuses smart?

El guiso is Spanish for stew, and it's also a gruesome method the Los Zetas cartel uses on their victims. Recipe: live person, 55-gallon of acid, and the person is either boiled alive or set on fire. An octopus can escape its aquarium, open jars and halve coconuts. A city of octopuses was found in the waters of Jervis Bay, off the coast of eastern Australia in 2017.

“The Cremains of The Day” by Josh Pachter

Is there really a Bossa Nova donut?

I really hope there's a Bossa Nova donut somewhere — maybe in Rio de Janeiro? — but I'm sorry to admit that there isn't one in Cedar Falls, Iowa. I made up the Mojo Donuts shop, too, although Cup of Joe on Main Street is real, and I spent a lot of time there when my wife Laurie and I lived in the Cedar Valley from 2008 to 2010. (If you ever find yourself next door in Waterloo, try the Texas donut at Johnson's Bakery. It's as big as your head, and every bite is delicious!)

“Killer Chocolate Chips” by Ruth McCarty

Most abused women are passive. What are triggers that make them act?

I think the most important trigger is when an abused woman reaches the lowest point in her relationship and realizes that taking action, even if it threatens her life, is better than staying in an abusive relationship.

“Sushi Lessons” by Edith Maxwell

Have you spent time in Japan?

I lived in the greater Tokyo-Yokohama area for two years in the seventies, when my American boyfriend was in the US Navy and worked on a small base. We lived in a drafty little house (not on base) in Minami Rinkan, on the Okakyu train line. I taught conversational English to businessmen and studied Japanese. We drank at a local bar in the neighborhood with a Mama-san just like in the story - where I felt comfortable going alone as a woman - and we learned how to make sushi from the old woman at the fish shop. You will recognize all of that from the story. Nothing else in "Sushi Lessons" is true - I swear! This is my third short story set in Japan (see https://edithmaxwell.com/short-fiction/ for the others).

“The Missing Ingredient for Murderous Intent” by Elizabeth Perona

Who is Joy?

Joy is one of our main characters, another of the "skinny dipping grandmas" who in the first book in the Bucket List mystery series, chronicled the elderly sleuths's escapades attempting to solve the murder mystery. She ended up becoming a correspondent for Good Morning America reporting occasionally on issues facing older Americans. She also became a reporter for a local news station, which is how she was able to track down the information Francine needed in the short story.

“It's Canning Season” by Adele Polomski

Why are there alligator farmers? Who wants alligators?

Alligator farmers in Florida can legally sell as many alligators as they can raise.  There are lucrative markets for both the meat and skins of these creatures, and farm raising alligators is a lot less complicated than producing cattle.  Unlike other farm-raised animals, alligators don’t need vaccinations, live on undevelopable swampy land and can survive with little food.  It’s not easy to get alligators to nest in captivity.  To restock their enterprises, farmers depend on collecting eggs in the wild, a costly and heavily regulated activity.  To cut corners, some alligator farmers turn to poachers.  

“The Gourmand” by Nancy Cole Silverman

Have you found life ironic?

What a cool question.  I chose to use a food critic as one the principal characters in the story, because after working in talk radio for many years, I’d known a few.  Ironically, most were never what their fans might expect.  Irony?  You bet!

“The Last Word” by Shawn Reilly Simmons

“The thermostat was set at a perfect seventy-two, the ambient air providing comfort and the ideal environment for both entrees and desserts to maintain their integrity for up to seven minutes after they left the service window.” Loc. 3577

Has someone really studied this stuff?

Like many things related to the culinary world, this concept is a mixture of study and practice. Once a dish is prepared, the clock starts ticking, and it must get to the diner before it "dies in the window" meaning it won't maintain its integrity or taste as good as it did in the first few minutes after cooking. Kitchens can reach up to 115 degrees or more, especially in front of a busy grill, and if the dining area is too cold, it will chill the food down too quickly and throw the dish out of balance. I chose 72 as the temperature for my story's chef because that's my favorite temp to dine in to keep my food tasty--and he's as particular about these things as I am! 

“Murder Takes the Cupcake” by Kate Willett

Are you going to develop a series based on these sisters?

Yes! I've been loosely outlining another story about the mystery surrounding the sisters' mother. Right now, I'm in the very early planning stages, but I think this one might be novelette length. Polly and Kaitlyn surprised me, and I don't think their story is finished yet. When I began writing "Murder Takes the Cupcake," I had no idea who they even were. I hadn't done any character work beforehand; I just dove head first into writing based on a vague idea about a girl visiting a psychic. Then Polly and Kaitlyn suddenly took hold of the plot and wouldn't let go. Their dynamic is fascinating, and I'm excited to explore it more. So, yes, my plan is for a series!

“Morsels of The Gods” by Victoria Thompson

Were the original marshmallows flavored by mallow? What are mallows? Are they grown in marshes?

Mallow plants are herbs and grow in marshy areas. Marshmallows were originally made from the mallow plant as far back as 2000 B.C. and were used medicinally. French confectioners added ingredients and made them into confections, for which we will always be grateful.

“Mrs. Beeton's Sausage Stuffing” by Christine Trent

Was Florence Nightingale really a proponent of adding raw eggs to food for patients?

Indeed she was!  Egg mixed into beef broth, eggs in wine…any way she could get an egg into a patient (or inmate, as they called hospital patients in those days) was fine by Florence.  She considered an egg to not only be very nutritious, but an item that could be easily slipped into any meal, whether cracked open and stirred into a drink or served poached with toast.  Florence Nightingale was an early proponent of using nutrition to help speed recovery along, although most health care professionals today might question serving beer and wine to hospital patients!

“Bring It” by Terry Shames

How did Jenna get Alain to go along with her plan?

It wasn’t my intent that Alain would know what Jenna was ultimately up to. She paid him to waltz in just long enough to lend his charm, good looks, and French accent to her plan to upend Marcia’s control of the potluck. He is gone before the real action begins. 

“Gutbombs 'N' Guinness” by Lisa Preston

Why did you make the central character a young woman horseshoer?

When I developed my horseshoer mystery series, I wanted to create an unusual world that readers aren't already seeing in another series featuring a protagonist who has room to grow. Rainy Dale, the high school dropout turned horseshoer, who pursued her childhood horse to another state fit the bill. Then I was delighted when my publisher gave me permission to use Rainy and her boyfriend in this story to explore their early days together.

{Note: spellcheck will not like "horseshoer" as one word--but it's one word.}

“Carne Diem” by Sharon Lynn

Is your main character hypoglycemic?

Since my main character lives on a boat she is constantly in motion. Boatlife requires cleaning of mold, keeping saltwater from eating away metal, and making sure sealife isn't attaching itself to the hull. Also, there is an unintentional core workout of keeping balanced when the boat moves on the tide. Add all of that to the sunshine and fresh air and my character always needs to stay nourished to keep up her energy.

“Turn the Sage” by Stephen D. Rogers

Do you like puns and word play?

Yes, I do enjoy word play, and have to resist including more in order to highlight the emotional journey of the characters.  A dash of dialogue, a sprinkle of setting, a pinch of pun.  Voila!

“Bad Ju-Ju” by M.A. Monnin

Can anyone buy bottles of nicotine?

Yes! Liquid nicotine is shockingly easy to buy online. Pure nicotine requires an FDA registration number, but to purchase strong dilutions, all that is needed is that buyers meet their state age requirements to purchase tobacco.

Here are additional stories included in the anthology!

“A Cup of Tea” by Parnell Hall

“Brown Recluse” by Marcia Adair

“A Slice of Heaven” by Laura Brennan

“Sticky Fingers” by L. D. Masterson

“Honor Thy Father” by Harriette Sackler

“The Blue Ribbon” by Cynthia Kuhn

“Murder Takes the Cupcake” by Kate Willett

“Bull Dog Gravy” by Mark Thielman

“Deadly In-Flight Dining” by Sara Rosett

Rivka's Place

by Linda Rodriguez

Rivka’s place at 39^th & Paseo is the only remnant of the postwar time when this stretch of Paseo Boulevard was prosperous—and white. As the area changed in color and class, the other shops and restaurants of its day moved or closed. Now this old Jewish lady’s bakery and deli huddles next to a tattoo shop, nail parlor, and liquor store, directly across the street from The Hot Jazz Lounge with its board-covered windows, live jazz, and occasional dead bodies late on weekend nights. Next block down squats Snake Eyes Music, best known for rap, porn, DEA shutdowns, and SWAT team visits. Rivka’s is the only survivor of better times.

I call myself CJ Nash. I work here behind the old-fashioned glass counters, making sandwiches, cooking, cleaning. Rivka Schinski’s my boss, and she’s about a hundred, a hunched old lady all twisted up by arthritis. She should have retired and sold or closed this place a long time ago. Her family sure wanted her to do that. Her grown kids and grandkids are rich, and they keep trying to get her to close this place and go someplace where they won’t have to worry about her getting knifed or shot. But Rivka’s tougher than gunmetal.

When they come around in their cashmere coats, driving their Lincolns and Lexuses, with their fears of crime and Blacks and bad publicity, she always says, “Hitler tried to kill me. The Nazis couldn’t kill me. Why should I be afraid of anyone else?” And she shakes her tiny wrinkled arm with its ugly tattooed numbers in their faces.

Truth of the matter is it hasn’t really been all that dangerous for her here. In its own way, the neighborhood looks out for its own. Rivka’s good to folks. She’s always got free treats for kids and food for the poor. She lets homeless street people, like Weedy, El, and The Rev, hang out inside the shop when it’s bitter cold or killer hot, along with the working girls. I’ve never known her to turn anyone away hungry who couldn’t pay. So, folks watch out for Rivka.

I know I do. I was homeless when I first met her, homeless, penniless, and on the run. Rivka’s been real good to me, gave me a job and a room in the back of the shop. Never asks awkward questions. I appreciate that.

My old man would hate to see me today, working for a Jew and hanging around with Blacks and Latinos. He thought he was the white man’s messiah, or that he’d raise my brothers and me for the job. We believed it, too, didn’t know any better. Back in those hills, I’d had no contact with anyone outside my family since I was six years old. My dad ran the world I grew up in, and his was the only truth I knew. It was a combination of boot camp and special forces training throughout my whole childhood.

But after the feds charged in and we fought back, Dad looking like a pincushion for bullets, Mom and my brothers dead, too, I couldn’t keep them from taking me captive with two slugs in my gut. Once I healed and went to prison—I was barely eighteen, see, but I was eighteen—I got a whole new education.

Now, I just keep myself to myself, low profile. Don’t leave this building much, except to ride the bus once a month to the nearest used bookstore down in Westport. I stay in the front of Rivka’s, slicing meat, vegetables, and breads, or work the mixer and oven in the kitchen or just lie on my cot in the back and read at night instead of sleeping. I’d just as soon no one realized I was even around.

I live in a whole different world from the one my crazy old man preached with its brotherhood of the white man. Truth is, hardly anybody white ever helped me after the troubles, except for this crazy little twisted-up Jewish woman.

I knew we had a new kind of trouble the day Kev Mackey came around to flirt with pretty little Trini Hernandez, like he always does, and brought that new gangbanger with him. Trini’s tiny, half Mexican, half Dominican. She keeps her hair cut short and wears jeans and sloppy T-shirts all the time. Trying not to look sexy and available like her hooker sister. Trying to say she’s something different from what every man who sees her wants her to be. Sometimes I gave her a book to try to read between her several jobs. She’s studying for her GED. Her secret hope is to go to school to become a nursing assistant and then maybe a nurse.

Kev’s a kid on the brink. He could come up with extraordinary guts and strength and go down the good road or do the easy thing and claim a gang and that short, brutal life. His new pal made that decision a long time ago. Big, tough, head shaved, pierced all over with silver knobs and rings, tats on his fingers. Saw plenty of those in prison.

“They call me Dom, little girl. That’s short for Dominator ‘cause that’s what I do. No one disses me. No one refuses me. That’s the way it’s got to be, sis.” He went after Trini right away. “Now, you are fine, girl. Just as fine as my homes Kev told me. You and me going to be real close friends. Real close.”

A cloud of menace hung over him. He wasn’t from here, and it wouldn’t make any difference to him that Rivka was good to people or that Trini was working hard to get out of this neighborhood where her dad and brothers wound up in the joint and her big sis on the streets. It sure wasn’t going to make any difference to him that Trini was a good girl. He’d just break her. That’s the way those eaten-up lost ones work. They don’t give a shit about anyone or anything.

Trini just ignored the punk, but Kev stood there with his mouth open like he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.

“No way, Dom. Trini’s mine.” Brave words, but he sounded as scared as he looked, all skinny brown-skinned teen with acne and nappy hair, trying to look bad with his jeans hanging around his knees.

Dom twisted his mouth. “But you want to share, right, homes?” His voice cut the air, harsh and dangerous. He glared at Kev with real threat. Dom wasn’t more than seventeen or eighteen, like me when I killed those feds. Like me, he’d been bred and trained to be dangerous. I knew his type. I’d been his type.

“There won’t be any sharing of me.” Trini looked across the glass counter at the two of them. She couldn’t help that her voice was small and soft, but she made it as firm and strong as she could. “I belong to no one but myself. Certainly not to you, Kevin.”

“Shit, Trini, you know you’re—“

“No bad language here, Kevin,” said Rivka, walking in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “You know the rules. You boys get something to eat and then leave Trini alone. She’s working.”

She came behind the shorter counter where Trini sat at the cash register. She reached over in the back of the high glass-front counters next to her and plucked up two doughnuts. “Here you go, boys. Nice and fresh and sweet.”

Dom glared at her and leaned over to get right in her face. “Listen, you old bitch! I—“

Rivka reached up and stuffed one of the doughnuts right in his open mouth as he was laying into her. His eyes flew open in shock and then panic as he started to choke.

“Chew,” Rivka said. “Chew and swallow. It’s good for you. Sweeten your temper. And no more bad language. You can’t frighten me.” She pointed to the tattoo on her wrist. “Scarier men than you will ever be have tried and failed.”

I moved out from the corner table behind the tall counter where I stayed most of the time, sharpening knives, making up bags of doughnut holes, whatever. I drifted over to stand next to Rivka. Mutt and Jeff. I’m almost tall enough to include two of her, one on top of the other. I still held the big butcher knife I’d been sharpening.

Dom was chewing as fast as he could and still choking some. Rivka waved him toward the door. “Go on home. Come back when you feel better.

I started to move around the short counter behind Trini. I thought I’d whack him on the back since he was having such a hard time, but he turned and dashed for the door to the street before I could.

“Come on, Trini,” said Rivka, grabbing her purse. “I will drive you home.”

“But I’ve got two more hours to work.” Trini looked as if she might start crying. “I need the money.”

“Kevin can work your hours. I will still pay you.” Rivka turned toward Kev. “Why would you bring such a meshugganuh…?” Her hands tried to grab words from the air. “Such a crazy one. Why bring him here to torment Trini?”

Kev started to sputter in anger. I raised my eyebrows at him. I know the effect that can have on a kid, what with the scar that runs from one brow down to my jaw.

Trini whirled to face Kev. “You stupid! You better not bring that punk around me again, Kev, or I’ll never, never speak to you anymore.”

“Come, Trini, let me drive you home. I don’t want you to walk tonight.” Rivka pushed her toward the back door. “You keep your phone by you tonight. Call me if anyone comes bothering around your apartment.”

“Call 911,”I shouted after them. “They might not get there as fast as Rivka, but they’ll have more firepower.”

When I turned back to Kev, he was staring at the butcher knife in my hand. “What? This?” I shook it at him a little.

He pulled his head back as his eyes grew bigger.

“Kev, I was sharpening knives when your pal got so out of line. I just happened to have it in my hand.”

“You sharpen knives a lot of the time. I’ve noticed that.”

I shrugged. “I was taught to take good care of my tools. A dull knife is dangerous. You’re much more likely to cut yourself or someone else accidentally with a dull knife. And I never want to do something like that accidentally.” I walked back to my corner butcher block table and laid the knife on it.

I had the knives laid out in a line on the table, ordered by size. I put away my sharpening stone and its bench. I’d finished that part of the drill. Next, I would take my butcher’s steel and hone the knives so it would take the barest touch of their edges to open the skin or surface of almost anything.

“You know, Kev, the time comes when you got to think for yourself and not just move in the direction everyone seems to be pushing you to move.” I looked at him directly, making eye contact, though I usually avoided it. I wanted to make sure he was hearing and understanding. “This Dom guy may seem cool, but he’s not. He’s bad news for someone like you. Anything you do with him will bring him what he wants because you’ll be left to take the blame and punishment. Never let someone else control what you feel and do.”

I knew it was probably useless to talk this way, but I was talking to myself at his age more than anything, that kid who’d blown away two feds thinking he was protecting his family, thinking he was doing the righteous thing, only to learn after too many deaths that he’d been misled and would now have to pay forever for letting someone else control his emotions and actions. I was talking to the boy who’d set me on the course I’d been on ever since that day the feds showed at our home compound.

“Nah, Dom’s okay. He just doesn’t want anybody to feel like they can mess with him.” Kev’s face suddenly looked troubled. “I sure wish Miz Rivka hadn’t done that to him. You know, she dissed him bad. He’s going to have to come back on her hard.”

I nodded. I knew that the minute Rivka did it. I’m not sure she didn’t know it also. Rivka’s a lot smarter than people give her credit for. Dom was going to have to come back in and put the hurt on her big time. I didn’t want to see that. I hoped he’d get smart and go somewhere else.

I had to keep myself as low and out of sight as possible. Just because the search for me wasn’t active any longer didn’t mean it wasn’t ready to leap up any second the feds heard of a sighting or whenever my fingerprints showed up in some case or other. So I avoided trouble always. Now, Rivka had walked herself right into some really bad trouble. I didn’t see what I could do about it.

When Rivka came back, she stopped right inside the back door and gestured for me to go back to her. Kev was ringing up old Mr. Banks, who stopped by each afternoon to buy two doughnuts for the price of one. We had standing orders from Rivka to always make him a sandwich to go with the doughnuts. It was probably his only real meal most days. He supported himself and his grandson on Social Security and a disability check. A hit-and-run driver killed his daughter and put his grandson in a wheelchair, giving the kid traumatic brain injury, as well. Needed lots of special medical care. Mr. Banks was one of the folks in the neighborhood hanging on by a thread.

I joined Rivka in back, wondering what she wanted to tell me that she didn’t want Kev to hear. She’d been gone longer than I expected. Maybe she took Trini to stay in some safer place.

She held out a thick bank envelope to me. “Take this and keep it safe, CJ. Tomorrow morning as soon as I get here to open, I want you to take my car and pick up Trini. Drive her to another town. A college town. Lawrence, Manhattan, Parkville, Warrensburg. Find her a place to live and get her settled in with this money in a bank account. Stay with her a few days. Help her find a job and everything. There’s enough for her to live on and go to school if she works and is careful.” She smiled at me. “Trini’s used to being careful with money.”

“You don’t want to send me as a nursemaid for a young girl, Rivka. You shouldn’t trust her to some guy unless it’s someone as old as Mr. Banks.”

She smiled at me and patted my chest when she couldn’t reach my shoulder. “You live through what I did, and you lose the blinders when it comes to people. Most of them are weak, and whichever way they fall will depend on the circumstances around them. Some are just bad like that gangster who wants Trini.” She shook her head with a frown. “Bad.” She smiled and gave my chest one last pat. “Some are good. Solid good. You’re one of them, CJ. You’ve been through the fire, had the impurities burned away.”

I shook my head. Crazy old lady. She had me so wrong.

“I don’t know why you fear yourself so much and why you’re running. I don’t want to know. I know people. You’ll take care of Trini and settle her somewhere safe without hurting her. You can come back when you’ve done that if you want. Or you can move on.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “I won’t be around much longer. Have to go into hospital, I suppose. My children will insist when they find out. I’d leave this place to you. They won’t want it. But I imagine you can’t have anything to do with the courts.”

I nodded dumbly. After a few seconds, I found my voice. “What’s wrong?”

She laughed, and for a second I thought I could see the young girl whose beauty and courage allowed her to escape from Auschwitz. “Life, that’s all. Life is a death sentence, CJ, and I’ve had a long run with mine, but the bill’s finally come due.” She morphed back into the twisted little woman I knew and shrugged her hunched shoulders. “It’s all been an extra gift. Every day since I didn’t die with my mother and aunt. Riches, all of it. I’m ready.”

I didn’t know what to say. I understood that. I should have died with my parents and brothers, but I’d long since reached a place where I was glad I hadn’t. “Still, you shouldn’t trust me with Trini or the money. You don’t know who I really am. I could be a murderer for all you know.”

She tilted her head to look up at me in a quick, birdlike movement. “If you are, I know there was a reason. You had cause to do it. You’re a man who values life and other people, even those others ignore or despise. Trini and the money will be safe with you. You can take some of it to speed you on your way. I know you’ll leave Trini with enough.”

She closed my hand around the envelope with her own tiny fingers. “Keep it safe and get Trini somewhere where that thug can’t find her as soon as we open tomorrow.”

She turned and marched on into the shop, snatching up an apron from its hook on the wall. “Well, Kevin, how are things going? Mr. Banks, how is Charlie doing?”

I turned into the tiny back room, not much more than a closet, where I had a cot and a set of plastic storage drawers I’d picked up at the thrift store. Everything else I owned, except the row of used books sitting along the deep windowsill, was in the backpack hanging from two nails in the wall. Instead of putting the envelope in the backpack, I slid it under the mattress and headed back into the front of the deli.

The bell above the door was still ringing from Mr. Banks’ departure as I walked back behind the counters as if nothing had changed. I headed over to the knives to put them away. Rivka started to gather the day’s left-over doughnuts, rolls, and cookies into a sack. She always stopped by the vacant lot at the end of the block and handed the bag to The Rev, a homeless guy who could have once been a minister—I’d heard him preach when drunk. The Rev was as close to a leader as the homeless guys had. He passed out the food and made sure everyone got some.

The bell rang again, and I looked up to find Dom walking in. He had a revolver—looked like a Smith & Wesson .357—stuck in the front of his pants. Good way to blow off the family jewels, my dad would have said. He had no patience with anyone who didn’t respect his weapons.

Kev froze at the register, hands in midair, eyes huge. Rivka took a deep breath and let it out with a big sigh, walking around the counter to confront him. I was surprised to find I’d walked almost over to Kev at the register, knife in hand, while staring at them.

“Trini’s not here,” Rivka said. “She won’t be in until tomorrow.”

The door slammed behind Dom. He didn’t jump at the sound, but he moved around Rivka so he could watch the door and street outside as well as her. I could only see the side of his face once he did that, although he was much closer to me.

“I’ll take care of her later. Right now, you’re the bitch I came to deal with.” He pulled the gun from his pants without blowing a hole in himself the way I was hoping he would.

Rivka shook her head. She looked at him, and you could see the sorrow wash over her features. “You’re so young. So much hate. Is there no way to reach you?”

“Shut up, old bitch. You’re not dissing me ever again. I’m the man, see.” He shook his gun at her. “You better start crawling if you hope to live.”

My hand tightened on the knife I held. Kev was shaking so hard I could feel it.

“Is an old woman like me worth throwing your own life away? Am I worth going to prison and staying until you’re old and gray yourself?” Rivka was so calm, as if she discussed whether to have beef or chicken for lunch.

I moved closer to where the edge of the low counter pressed into my gut. I saw it in his eyes when he came in. Dom was going to kill Rivka. He’d hopped himself up for it, and there wouldn’t be any way to stop him, short of force. I figured I was the only one in the room, other than him, able to apply any force.

Rivka looked straight at me for a second, as if she’d heard my thoughts, and she shook her head imperceptibly before looking back at Dom.

“You’re going to be so fucking sorry you ever met me, you old cow,” he said as he lifted his gun toward her.

Kev screamed. I flung myself over the counter, ripping my knife across Dom’s throat, but I knew it was too late. He’d pulled the trigger, even as I threw myself at him. I hung on the countertop as Rivka fell onto her back, blood blossoming on her chest, and Dom dropped face forward, blood spurting in front of him. Kev screamed again.

I threw the knife down, pulled myself off the counter, and ran around to Rivka. “Call 911, Kev. Shut up and call 911. She needs an ambulance.” I knelt at her side, and she smiled up at me.

“Take that money. Trini won’t need it now. Run and hide. You know how.” Her voice was broken and gasping.

“Hang on, Rivka. An ambulance is on its way.” I tried to lift her head.

“No!” she cried. “Go now, CJ. Take that money and go.”

I stood and saw that Kev had finally picked up the phone. “Get that ambulance here for her, damn it.” I looked at her again, and she waved her hand weakly, signaling me to go.

It was only a few steps to the back room. I slid the envelope of cash out from under the mattress and grabbed my backpack. I could feel the feds on my trail already, that hunted feeling I’d lost for a while with Rivka. Snatching her keys from the counter, I slammed out the back door and threw the bag and myself into her old Buick.

I’d have to ditch it before very long, but I’d have a little while before they realized it was gone and started looking. Long enough to get away from the scene that would have months of my fingerprints all over it. Long enough to slide back underground and out of sight before the feds got involved.

Long enough to get somewhere safe to grieve for a twisted old Jewish lady who came out of hell to feed a whole neighborhood the rest of the world forgot.

Linda Rodriguez's Dark Sister: Poems is her 10^th book. Plotting the Character-Driven Novel, based on her popular workshop, and The World Is One Place: Native American Poets Visit the Middle East, an anthology she co-edited, were published in 2017. Every Family Doubt, her fourth mystery featuring Cherokee detective, Skeet Bannion, and Revising the Character-Driven Novel will be published in 2019. Her three earlier Skeet novels—Every Hidden Fear, Every Broken Trust, Every Last Secret—and earlier books of poetry—Skin Hunger and Heart's Migration—have received critical recognition and awards, such as St. Martin's Press/Malice Domestic Best First Novel, International Latino Book Award, Latina Book Club Best Book of 2014, Midwest Voices & Visions, Elvira Cordero Cisneros Award, Thorpe Menn Award, and Ragdale and Macondo fellowships. Her short story, “The Good Neighbor,” published in Kansas City Noir, has been optioned for film.

Rodriguez is past chair of the AWP Indigenous Writer’s Caucus, past president of Border Crimes chapter of Sisters in Crime, founding board member of Latino Writers Collective and The Writers Place, and a member of International Thriller Writers, Native Writers Circle of the Americas, Wordcraft Circle of Native American Writers and Storytellers, and Kansas City Cherokee Community. Visit her at http://lindarodriguezwrites.blogspot.com